Known By Heart
by Linguam
Summary: Missing scenes from 12x11: Regarding Dean. Because we all know there was so much more going on that we didn't get to see.
1. Who's this hippie?

**A/N:** A little late to the party, but here goes! This episode was emotionally nauseating in basically every way conceivable, so some Sammy angst ahoy (sorry, Sammy). Dean is his usual charming combination of jackass and big brother comfort.

 **Disclaimer:** Kripke, The CW, yadda yadda.

* * *

"Who's this hippie?"

One question.

One question, three words, four syllables.

It's the sound of Sam's whole world crumbling apart.

His first thought isn't very useful.

 _No._

One word, one syllable. Letters reeking of denial.

The world could try its hand at a – what is it now, fourth? fifth? – attempt at an apocalypse, every Hell-spawn in existence could materialize in front of him aiming for his throat, and Sam wouldn't notice. His vision has been reduced to the staircase: sturdy wooden steps carrying the support beam of his entire life.

He stares at his brother, looks over at Rowena.

It didn't work.

For a moment, he feels strangely afloat. Like he's slowly being erased, piece by giant piece. Everything that makes him _Sam,_ it's all fading _._ Because so much of who he is, is shared with Dean. Is _because_ _of_ his brother.

His anchor.

The only constant throughout his whole life.

All those hours spent crammed in the car, driving down the vast assortment of American backroads. Shady motel rooms. Dirty diners and dingy bars. Years of constant battle, of losses and sacrifices, of betrayal and fear and anger and _pain._ Of just barely keeping it together. Of toughening up and soldiering on anyway, for each other. All those near-misses. Every close-call. Reassuring banter. Patching each other up. Comfort offered in the guise of gentle ribbing and a slap on the shoulder.

All those memories. Memories they share with no one but each other.

Memories that now only belong to Sam.

 _Dean doesn't know me._

Despair builds in Sam's throat as he looks back at his brother. Dread unfurling in his stomach.

So if Dean doesn't remember him…

Where does that leave him?

With _what,_ does that leave him?

Then Dean wheezes a laugh, the _I-should've-been-a-comedian-I'm-so-friggin-hilarious_ laugh, looks at Rowena and grins.

"Look at his face." He turns back to Sam. "Kinda like that time when I ate all of your Halloween candy. Remember that?" He shakes his head, chuckles. Eyes sparkling but smile almost subdued. Nostalgic. "Classic."

 _Remember that?_

… _that time…_

… _I ate all of your Halloween candy…_

 _Remember that?_

Sam's mind whites out. Every thought, every emotion. It all vanishes.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Tries for a glare. For one of his famous bitch-faces.

Anything.

But relief is cancelling out all of it.

Because the comment is so purely _Dean_ that it leaves no room for doubt.

A breathy laugh pushes its way through constricted airways. He shakes his head. Looks at Dean through suddenly stinging eyes.

Sees _his_ Dean.

Manages, "Not funny."

His face twitches, but he doesn't know with what emotion.

Apparently, Dean does – Dean always knows, Dean _will_ _always_ know– because he's already down the stairs, jokester gone, and Sam meets him halfway and wraps his arms around him with a fierceness usually reserved for when one of them has been close to dying…

 _I've seen my brother die, but watching him become not him? This might actually be worse._

Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden dizziness, releases a shaky breath. Thinks, _oh god, oh god thank you, thankyou-thankyou-thankyou…_

Dean doesn't say anything. Only tightens his own hold, bears more of Sam's weight. Like it's nothing. Like it's second nature.

"It's over," he murmurs, because even though he's the one who moments ago didn't have a single solid memory from his entire life, Dean doesn't know how to stop being a big brother. "It's over now."

Three words. Four syllables.

The world shifting back on its axis.

Sam swallows around the fist-sized lump in his throat.

"You remember—"

"Your Sailor Moon period in third grade? Sure as hell wish I didn't – I mean, seriously, the _cat_? What the hell dude…"

" _Dean._ "

"Yeah." Dean's voice is rough with assurance. With sincerity. Promise. "Yeah, Sam, I remember."

 _I remember everything._

 _I remember you._

Three words. Five syllables.

It's exactly what Sam needs to hear.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, it was crucial that they hug it out - and since the writers keep withholding these precious moments from us...

I have at least one more missing scene planned, so _tbc.._.


	2. Sensory overload

**A/N:** This did not turn out at all like I had originally planned... Luckily, I prefer it this way!

The boys, the Impala, and complete plotlessness ahoy!

* * *

Dean holds out for just over two hours.

For a guy who usually has no problem driving ten hours straight – longer, if he's sufficiently motivated – it's quite sad. Laughable, even.

But as it is, it's one hour, twenty minutes, and seventy-five miles longer than Sam had expected.

He knows they'll have to pull over soon – Dean is already doing that squinty eyed thing that precedes a massive headache – but he gives his brother a little while longer before he intervenes, if for no other reason than that it feels damn good seeing him behind the wheels again.

[…]

Twenty miles later and Dean's complexion has gone from "slightly pasty" to milky-white, his shoulders tense, breathing shallow and controlled.

Sam opens his mouth – prepared for the argument that is sure to follow what he's about to say – and snaps it shut when he realizes Dean is already maneuvering the Impala onto the roadside. The engine is cut, leaving only silence and a sudden itch of worry between Sam's shoulder blades.

"Dean?"

"Feel like taking over for a while?" Dean rolls his head towards him – it looks like it takes effort – and offers a weary smirk. "Think I could use a few more hours."

Sam takes in the pained lines that crinkle ashen skin, the glazed quality of hazel eyes— _that spell really did kick your ass, huh?—_ and painstakingly swallows all his questions.

He forces a small smile of his own. Nods.

"Sure, man."

Dean's already settled against the passenger window by the time he's rounded the car, brow lightly furrowed and arms across his chest like he's cold.

Sam bites his lip, hand hovering over the ignition.

 _Could it be some delayed response to the spell? Something we missed? Rowena didn't say anything about any side effects; though, it's not exactly like either of us pressed her for any details…_

"'M fine, Sam," Dean says, unknowingly—or, probably, not so unknowingly—interrupting his escalating alarm. "Jus' tired."

Well, sure, that would make sense, seeing as they were practically up all night covering their tracks and disposing of the last descendants of the Loughlin clan.

Still…

"You sure?"

Dean snorts, the sound pained but also unmistakably amused.

"Yeah, Sam, I'm sure." He rubs a hand against his forehead with a quiet sigh. "'S like a jumbled mess of my entire life up here, man. Can't focus for shit."

In his mind's eye, Sam pictures an upturned library, books and papers haphazardly strewn all over the floor, tables, shelves: everything there but in complete disarray, with no clear indication where or how to begin putting it all back in order.

The mere thought makes him want to squirm, but he nods his understanding.

"Sensory overload."

"Yeah well, whatever it is, it sucks," Dean mutters, burrowing deeper into his jacket.

Sam's lips twitch in sympathy.

"You need anything?"

The lack of any immediate response is enough for Sam to reach for the blanket lying in the backseat, as well as fish out a water bottle from the cooler. He throws them both at his brother, bottle gently connecting with Dean's leg, and then starts rummaging through the glove compartment for the Advil.

Dean sighs, probably aiming for annoyed but he only sounds tired.

"Sam…"

"Just shut up and take 'em, will you?"

Dean gives him, and then the pills, a half-hearted glare, but throws them back without further argument. He then goes about trying to make himself comfortable, squirming and shuffling down in the seat, and somehow ends up practically buried in a cocoon of leather and wool, dark blond spikes peeking out like the quills of a porcupine.

Sam tries his best not to laugh at the sight.

"You good?"

The vaguely human shape exhales deeply.

"I would be if you'd start friggin' drivin' already."

The words are already starting to slur with sleep and Sam huffs a breath, mouth twitching despite himself, and obediently starts the car. Can't help but mutter, "Ungrateful jerk."

"Whiny bitch," comes the immediate response.

Sam does smile, then. Throwing his dozing brother a fond look, he steers the Impala back onto the road, and towards home.

* * *

 **A/N:** Not sure if I have any other scenes in mind... Might be I'll return and add something, if my muse is so inclined.

Hope you've enjoyed everything so far!


	3. Known By Heart

**A/N:** Sam just needs a moment.

* * *

"I knew you."

They'd reached the bunker about half an hour ago, both weary despite the short time spent on the road. Dean had stumbled more than walked down the stairs; it was obvious that his headache still hadn't let him off the hook and that he was in dire need of rest. But Sam hadn't been ready to let him out of his sight just yet.

He'd have to. Soon.

Just… not yet.

They've been sitting in the kitchen in companionable silence for the last ten minutes, so the sudden statement takes Sam by surprise.

He opens his mouth—and promptly closes it again: the automatic _when?_ stuck in his throat.

"On the phone," Dean says, anyway. He trails a finger along the condensation on his beer bottle. "I mean, I… It was all messed up, you know? I still couldn't… I didn't remember that we…" He breaks off, frowns at the bottle.

Sam's lips press together. He'd been anxious and jumpy the whole ride back to the bunker, hasn't slept at all since this mess started, and still dreads meeting his brother's gaze and seeing that confusion again, that _complete_ _lack_ _of_ _recognition_ …

Yeah, he's still a little freaked out. All things considered, he's entitled. And of course Dean has picked up on that—of course he's trying to fix it, fix it by talking about it, because he knows that that's what Sam usually needs in order to decompress.

And Sam is grateful. Really, he is. But he is also dog-tired and soul-weary and not at all ready to talk about this. Not now—hell, maybe not ever.

He clears his throat.

It feels raw.

Like he's been screaming.

"Dean, listen, man, you don't have to—"

"You were in danger," Dean says quietly. His eyes are troubled and faraway. "You were in danger, and I couldn't _remember_ …" He looks up, twin hazels locking unerringly onto Sam. "But I knew, Sam. I _knew_ that was important."

Silence stretches in the space between them. Sam works to speak around the block of barely contained emotions clogging his throat.

 _Is knowing and remembering the same thing?_

"I thought you told Rowena you didn't remember anything," he eventually manages, syllables rolling off his tongue like cracked marbles over gravel.

Dean's lips twitch, a smile and a grimace in one. The definition of bittersweet.

"Some things are pretty hard to forget, Sammy."

Like what you've been programmed to do since the age of four. Like what has been your main priority throughout your entire life. Like your core reason for existing.

 _Watch out for Sammy._

Sam briefly wonders how much teasing he'd have to submit to if he just went ahead and cried right then and there.

Before he can start to seriously consider it, Dean downs what's left of his beer and abruptly rises, signaling the end of the conversation before they cross the line onto a dreaded "moment." One hand grazes the table for balance, a pained wince flickering fleetingly across his features despite his best efforts.

Sam feels a twinge of guilt for forcing him to stay up when it's so clear that his brother is half-dead on his feet. But he can't find it in him to feel sorry for it, not really. Not after everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the sheer _terror_ —they just went through.

There's a brief pause as Dean stops beside him, and then his hand cups Sam's neck in a familiar gesture. Offering comfort as much as taking it.

Sam releases a slow, shaky breath through his nose, blinking furiously.

This one had been close, and they both know it.

He looks up and meets his brother's eyes, and all of that relief, gratitude and _thank you for not giving up on me_ that vibrates through his every cell, is mirrored there.

 _Still here, Sammy. Not going anywhere._

And honestly? Watching Dean make his slow but relatively steady way towards their sleeping quarters, idly humming Metallica's _The Memory Remains,_ Sam feels like the luckiest damn guy in the world.

 _ **Fin**_

* * *

 **A/N:** Too angsty? Too chick-flick? I'll take a page out of Dean's book and blame Sam for that.

Hope you've enjoyed these little drabbles! Tata for now.


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